


Come Together

by piginapoketuesday



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, But can we blame him, In Character, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Threats of Violence, Will is perpetually angry about Abigail, nope - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piginapoketuesday/pseuds/piginapoketuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal wants Will to actually get angry for once. Will gets a little too angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Together

“Say it, Will.” Hannibal set down the knife he was using to prepare dinner. He stared at the cutting board stained red with fresh tomato juice, his rolled-up shirt sleeves exposing tensed muscles, and he sighed.

Will placed the forks on their respective napkins at the table and looked up. “Say what?”

Hannibal wiped his fingers on a clean towel. “You have never once raised your voice to me. Raise it now. Everything you’ve ever wanted to scream into my face. I’m listening.”

Laughing humorlessly, Will rubbed his chin. “Is this some sort of catharsis? You get to blink calmly at my furious, self-righteous cries, and the exhausted neutral that comes after will make me love you? Is that it, Hannibal?”

“You can hardly pretend you don’t love me, Will.” His features were dabbed with just an ounce of sorrow, but on his usually debonair face, he appeared to be drowning in it.

“No,” Will said, dark and trembling, “We don’t pretend anymore, do we, Dr. Lecter?”

Looking for something to do with his hands, Hannibal picked up the knife again and continued slicing. “I’m only attempting to comfort you.”

“Comfort me,” Will said, moving to stand in front of the island Hannibal was working at. “That’s how you see everything you do? Your emotionless, clinical treatment? Why should it matter what I feel when, in your mind, I belong to you? You always knew exactly how to cut me.”

“You aren’t yelling, Will.” His expression was an impasse. 

“Will it bring Abigail back if I scream at you?!” He clenched his fingers around the edges of the island’s marble top until his knuckles turned white. “How many pretentious, designer teacups do you have in this kitchen? How many, Hannibal?”

The tomato began to bruise in his hand. “Will.”

Will went to the cabinets and opened one. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he slammed that door and opened another.

The sound of wood crashing against wood over and over set Hannibal’s teeth on edge. 

Finally, Will flung open a cabinet and found it full of teacups, all gorgeous, all of various shapes and sizes. He grabbed one at random: a green, fat little thing with a square handle. “Am I angry enough now, Hannibal?” he yelled, and he smashed the teacup on the floor.

Hannibal watched it chip the edge of a tile and shatter across the kitchen. He briefly considered using the knife in his hand to knick his own temple. “I know it won’t gather itself together again, Will,” he said. “Abigail Hobbs is dead.”

Will grabbed another teacup and hurled it at Hannibal’s head. When the older man ducked, it broke against the wall behind him and rained down shards of red. “Time and circumstance have returned us to this moment.” His voice was growing hoarse. “We were the closest thing she had to family!” More teacups sailed from Will’s hands across the kitchen. The sound of ceramic breaking kept time with his heart.

Hannibal stood silently and absorbed the outburst. He wondered if Will would get through the entire collection before checking the bottom of any of the cups.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Will cried, his eyes welling up. “The broken, vulnerable fine China you met so many years ago." He bowed contemptuously. "At your service, Doctor.”

Four teacups from a particularly ornate set shattered over the countertop, just missing Hannibal’s fingers as he lifted his hands out of the line of fire.

“You were never that man, Will,” Hannibal said.

“I was never _your_ man.” 

“You belong to no one. Certainly not to me.”

Will threw another teacup at the counter, and a stray white shard bounced up and cut Hannibal across the cheek. “You used her blood, her breath, to fuel my _radiance_. She didn’t deserve it, Hannibal. She didn't get a chance.”

With blood dripping down his face, Hannibal released the knife and the tomato. “Her death is one of the few great regrets of my life.”

“Her death. You say that as if it just happened. As if you didn’t—” He dropped the teacup he was holding and knelt, palming his face. The kitchen filled with shaken sobs.

“Will, please.” Hannibal walked over to his partner and knelt in the broken ceramic. “I’m sorry.”

Tears spilling over his cheeks, Will curled his fingers around a thin shard. He lurched at Hannibal, forcing his shoulders back onto the tile, watching his hair shift out of it’s usual form. He held the bit of teacup like a knife to Hannibal’s throat. “I know exactly how to cut you.” His voice trembled.

Hannibal’s nose and mouth twitched. “ _Intimately._ ”


End file.
